2nd draft:its coming along

A sprawling circus tent of stars

one wide expanse to which there is no end

Is there life out  there?

Ask the night that question 

and darkness answers back 

with the the rolling crunch of a railroad car

Unseen crickets screech, 

dogs bark, 

wind shakes the branches,

a barn owl complains 

of fireflies that flee his bite,

sodden grass breathes,

rising fog rains rivers of mist

and ponds come alive 

with the riotous music of frogs

Chronicle poem:1st draft

Sky-Watcher, Night-Listener

The sky is a sprawling circus tent of stars

Ask the night your questions 

and the darkness talks back:

unseen crickets screech,

the rolling crunch of a railroad car resounds, 

dogs bark, 

wind shakes the branches,

a barn owl complains of fireflies fleeing his bite,

the sodden grass breathes,

the rising fog rains rivers of mist

over ponds alive with the riotous music of frogs

April 17: stopped counting :(

Sleep Patterns

One corner folded back

in a neat triangle, I insert

myself snugly into one quarter

of the bed and sleep unmoved

In the morning

the sheets are smooth except

for a ripple roughly my shape

How different from the way

we populate the mattress

together 

Then no amount of space

 is enough to uncoil our nightly traffic,

the sweet sleepwalk of our limbs

ever-expanding like Hawking’s universe

I twist, you sprawl out

prospecting for new territory

The rails groan, call out for mercy

You lock me

in a sweaty embrace and snore 

blissfully into my neck

I’ve been known to kick, 

to disrobe my pillow

Now

alone

I simply fold the triangle back,

turn up the spread

already smooth across the foot of the bed
and my morning chore is done

I sleep unmoved

April 10: poem 4

I hate trying to be something,

trying to say something.

It’s like breaking the petals off all the roses

to try to rebuild a perfect rose.

Like trying to hold water

in your palms or smoke in your mouth.

I am not exceptional.

I can read a book in about six hours.

I know all the words of Hamlet’s soliloquy.

That’s about it.

What I am

is nothing I will ever be famous for.

History favors the brilliant and a surprising amount of rubbish 

lurks about the hollow spaces of my brain.

I could dramatize-

invent a few weird ancestors perhaps.

But I don’t think it is worth destroying

my blighted roses to create one that isn’t alive.

Most mornings you will find me

with my coffee at the computer

just tapping out the nonsense of my life.

april 10: poem 3

I promised myself

not to read more of your letters

until I wrote--

they had become

such a one-sided conversation.

There were efforts-

short words rubbing against other short words,

scrawled on paper,

piled in boxes,

saved in computer files.

The trouble is

what people write is

almost never what they really feel.

Humor can be deftly coupled

with the bleakest stuff in life

and who would ever know.

Even now I could tell you

twin kittens patter across the keyboard

chasing my fingers

and I must dust off a few keys

before I can continue.

You would laugh

and I would gain time

to backspace and delete.

Where is the  risk

that we accept in face to face

communication?

Of course I am making  lame excuses

I know that what you expect

is a simple  shopping list of my day 

and that I could easily deliver.

Only I want to say more,

only I can’t,

only I don’t know how,

only I’ve forgotten the words.

But you already know.

I should just commit and hit SEND.

April 8 : poem 2

I am getting father and farther behind. Oh well, at least I am trying. Here goes.

Petals fall like children
sleepily from the redbud trees-
Spring exhaling.
The next breath will be Summer,
a gasp past sultry,
wet with storms that never cool,
funnels of tears that split the sky.
Rain sizzles sidewalks, puddles on asphalt.
Rainbows in oil stains glisten like gems,
their color trapped in the depth of black,
so fragile it shatters with a footfall.
The bursting-forth is soon over,
the tender one-time blooms,
replaced by raucous zinnias
and dazzling displays of weeds
that lift their defiant heads to feast
on heat and hail alike.

Bend grass into baskets
and bring me bouquets of clover,
whose roots like fisted fingers
hold their ground long after
Spring's breath fails.

April 4 : poem 1

 It’s rather like this:

You learn to ride a bike with trainer wheels.

It’s just a larger version of a tricycle 

and you aren’t allowed

to take it into the street.

You peddle up and down the driveway

determined to master

the art of balance.

Some kids younger than you

have already learned

and now seek 

to undermine your confidence,

fill your ears with taunts and chants.

You must field their insults

with composure

while trying not to crash.

It is the stuff of childhood.

Someone said 

‘you must walk before you can run’

but more importantly

you must first sweep the drive

with the maddening clatter of trainers.

You must tread water in the shallow end of the pool

wearing water wings,

endure the embarrassment of  a booster chair.

No one jumps on their two-wheeler

and glides smoothly ‘round the block

on the first try. 

You scrape your knee,

you get back on,

you scrape your knee again.

The distress that arises from forgetting

that simple lesson

can steal your equilibrium.

make you fall flat.

It’s rather like this:

Trainers are there for a  reason.

You may not like it but pace yourself. 

Sooner or later

everyone learns to ride a bike.

Poem a day challenge

Well I am already behind since this is the 4th. But I will make an effort. Actually I have 2 titles that I just have to figure out what they mean. Guess that is sort of reverse writing but what the heck.